The Devil You Know: Comparing I, Lucifer and Paradise Lost

I’ve recently re-read Glen Duncan’s book I, Lucifer. It’s sort of the Biblical story of the fall of Lucifer from the devil’s perspective. Duncan doesn’t just make Lucifer into someone out to cause chaos. I mean, he does, but just in one person’s life. Entertainment makes Lucifer more intriguing in books, television, music, etc. Another work of literature that made the devil interesting is one of my favorite tales … John Milton’s Paradise Lost, which paints the devil as sort of an anti-hero. The Devil has always been a master storyteller when authors or whomever gives him the mic.

I, Lucifer and Paradise Lost take that premise and run in opposite directions. Both let Lucifer speak for himself, but the similarities mostly stop there. Milton’s Satan is a tragic epic hero. Duncan’s Lucifer is a sardonic London party guest. Together though, they show just how flexible the figure of the Devil can be, and what that says about us.

In Paradise Lost, Satan enters with the gravitas of a fallen general. His speeches are full of classical grandeur: “Better to reign in hell than serve in Heaven.” Milton’s blank verse gives him a dignity that almost rivals God’s. Over the course of the epic poem, that dignity rots. The grand speeches shrink to self-justifications, and Satan’s transformation into a literal serpent mirrors his moral decay.

In I, Lucifer, Duncan skips the slow moral unraveling. His Lucifer arrives already fully modern, fully cynical, and fully shameless. Given one month in a human body (that of a washed-up writer), he narrates in a breezy, pop-culture-savvy monologue. Where Milton’s Satan wraps his rebellion in lofty ideals, Duncan’s Lucifer cheerfully admits it was always about ego, boredom, and refusing to kneel.

Milton’s universe is theological first, dramatic second. Satan’s rebellion is a misuse of free will. He chooses pride over obedience, and the moral lesson is clear: freedom is good only when exercised in harmony with God’s will.

Duncan’s Lucifer would rather set himself on fire than live in “harmony” with anyone else’s will but his own. Free will is the only real prize, even if it comes with loneliness, pain, or damnation. God offers him redemption at the end of his month on Earth; Lucifer declines, not because he can’t repent, but because repentance means surrender.

In Paradise Lost, humanity is collateral damage. Satan tempts Adam and Eve as a strike against God. Milton’s Satan does not care about them beyond their strategic value. In I, Lucifer, humanity is the entertainment. Lucifer adores human art, music, lust, and self-delusion. He mocks humans constantly, but there’s a grudging admiration underneath. He might still ruin your life, but he’ll stay for a drink and ask about your novel.

Milton’s Satan is the stuff of cathedral murals: moral, solemn, and framed by the cosmic stakes of Heaven and Hell. Duncan’s Lucifer is more like the friend who hijacks your bar tab and spends the night dismantling your worldview between shots. One speaks in blank verse; the other in sarcastic asides.

Both invite you into the rebel’s point of view, but where Milton uses the Devil to reinforce divine justice, Duncan uses him to undermine it.

The endgame in Paradise Lost is Satan firmly in Hell, stripped of dignity, an eternal warning against rebellion. I, Lucifer ends with Lucifer walking away grinning, having learned nothing he’s willing to admit, but maybe carrying a few uncomfortable human feelings he can’t quite shake. Milton’s Devil falls because he can’t change. Duncan’s Devil survives because he refuses to.

In both cases, Lucifer is compelling because he’s the ultimate outsider; someone who sees rules, refuses them, and accepts the consequences. Milton’s Satan speaks to our fear of ambition’s cost; Duncan’s Lucifer speaks to our hunger for autonomy in a world that loves telling us what’s good for us.

The Devil, it turns out, reflects whatever rebellion we need at the time. In the 17th century, that meant warning against pride. In the 21st, it might mean laughing in God’s face while ordering another round.

If Milton’s Satan makes you think twice about disobedience, Duncan’s Lucifer makes you want to disobey better.

Elon Musk Has a Breeding Fetish and it Creeps Me Out

Let’s talk about Apartheid Clyde again. Not the genius inventor, not the Mars guy, not the billionaire memelord, but the man on a bizarre, almost dystopian crusade to impregnate the planet. At this point it’s not just “having a lot of kids.” It’s a full-blown ideology. A fetish wrapped in futurism. A techno-breeding manifesto disguised as civilization-saving.

Apartheid Clyde has at least 14 children (that we know of) with multiple women, including employees. He’s tweeted things like “population collapse is the biggest threat to humanity” and “I’m doing my part haha,” as if civilization hinges on him personally repopulating the Earth — or Mars — with his offspring. That’s not family planning. That’s legacy-building with a hint of sci-fi eugenics.

He’s literally turned human reproduction into a status symbol. It’s not about love or parenting or raising decent people. It’s about seeding the future … with himself. He thinks he’s a mythological figure tasked with restarting the species after the collapse.

It’s not subtle. He has said he believes “smart people” aren’t reproducing enough. He reportedly fathered twins with a Neuralink executive. He once called birth control a “civilization-ending experiment.” He’s flirted with the logic of eugenics while acting like he’s just being a rationalist.

In any other context, this would be horrifying. But because he’s rich and quirky, people brush it off as just another Musk-ism. But imagine any regular man walking around, telling the world it’s his moral duty to have as many children as possible because his DNA is just that important. That’s not just arrogant. That’s a fetish.

This isn’t about children. It’s about control. Power. Legacy. Apartheid Clyde talks about colonizing Mars, building superintelligence, and rewriting human history, always with himself as the central node. He doesn’t want to save the word. He wants to remake it in his image, and apparently that starts in the bedroom. He’s not trying to be your kid’s role model. He’s trying to be their ancestor.

Here’s the kicker: Apartheid Clyde doesn’t believe in collective solutions. He doesn’t trust democracy. He doesn’t care about building a better society. He wants a genetically optimized future ruled by the right kind of people: him and his kind.

And that’s why his weird, hyper-capitalist breeding campaign is so creepy. Because it’s not just personal. It’s political. It’s patriarchal. And it’s deeply authoritarian in disguise. We don’t need more Musk children. We need fewer billionaires treating the Earth — and our bodies — like a startup they can scale.

The Childfree Christ

I read a book some time ago titled The Childfree Christ which was about anti-natalism from the Bible’s perspective. Yes, I view myself as a Christian. No, I’m not going to try to convert you. I get sick of the pro-life crowd saying that childbirth is God’s will. I’ve found that a lot of the pro-life crowd are hypocrites anyway. They want a child born, but not a child loved, fed, sheltered, and educated. This book takes the well-known “be fruitful and multiply” and flips it on its head. I thought I’d share my views as an anti-natalist and as a Christian.

Most Christians assume you have to be pro-natalist. “Be fruitful and multiply,” as I just said above, right? Children are a “blessing,” families are sacred, and if you don’t want children, you’re somehow rejecting God’s design.

Here’s the thing though: that’s not the whole picture. Not even close.

As a Christian and an anti-natalist, I don’t believe in bringing new life into a world soaked in suffering, injustice, and despair. Why? Because I take suffering seriously. Believe it or not, the Bible does too.

Let’s start with Job. You know … the guy who went through more hell than most of us can imagine. How did he respond?

“Let the day perish on which I was born.” (Job 3:3) “Why did I not perish at birth?” (Job 3:11)

That’s not a metaphor. That’s a man who knows pain and wishes he’d never been born. And God doesn’t smite him for saying it.

Then there’s Ecclesiastes, which is the most brutally honest book in the Bible. At one point it flat out says: “Better than both is the one who has never been born.” (Ecclesiastes 4:3)

That’s a direct quote. Not an interpretation. Not a “hot take.” A scriptural lament about how broken the world is.

Now, let’s talk about Jesus. Childless. Celibate. Wandering. Focused on the Kingdom of God, not the nuclear family. In Luke 23:39, he says something that flips pro-natalism on its head: “Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that have never bore.” Why? Because He’s talking about a time of horror. A world so dark, having kids is a curse, not a gift.

Paul, who wrote much of the New Testament was also childfree … and blunt:

“It is good for a man not to marry.” (1 Corinthians 7:11)

“Those who marry will face many troubles in this life, and I want to spare you this.” (1 Corinthians 7:28) He saw family life not as a holy mission, but as a worldly distraction and even a burden.

Jesus even said to hate this life. “Whoever hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life.” (John 12:25). That’s not nihilism. That’s recognition that this world — full of violence, grief, and decay — isn’t the final goal. Maybe not creating more suffering is part of loving our neighbor.

There’s a long tradition of Christian asceticism, celibacy, and voluntary childlessness from Paul to the desert fathers, monks, nuns, mystics, and Christ Himself. Not one of them believed reproduction was the point. You don’t get into Heaven by having kids. You don’t earn God’s love by pushing others into this mess. You don’t have to romanticize childbirth while the planet burns and billions suffer.

I’m against unnecessary pain. I believe in the teachings of Christ. I believe bringing someone into this broken world without their consent is not an automatic good. It is cruel. If that bothers you then take it up with Job or Ecclesiastes or Jesus. I’ll be over here, choosing not to multiply and trusting God to understand why.

Can you be a Marxist/Leninist/Kropotkinist/Chomskyist?

Short answer? Yeah. Long answer? It’s complicated, but that’s never stopped me before.

Look, these four thinkers don’t exactly hold hands and sing the Internationale together. They’ve got different blueprints for tearing down capitalism and building something better. That doesn’t mean you can’t steal the best tools from each of them and sharpen your own.

Here’s how it breaks down:

Marx gives you the blueprint.

He’s the one who showed us that capitalism isn’t a glitch, it’s the whole fucking operating system. Class struggle. Alienation. Historical materialism. Without Marx, you’re just vibing in the ruins, not naming the enemy.

Lenin says “Great. Now do something.”

Marx diagnosed the disease. Lenin started the surgery. He understood that capitalism doesn’t die politely. You need pressure, structure, and a strategy. That’s the whole vanguard party thing: not perfect, but a reminder that wishful thinking doesn’t start revolutions. Power has to be seized, not begged for.

Kropotkin asks, “But what are you building?”

The anarchist in the mix who is the heart. He reminds you that the goal isn’t just a new boss in a red hat. It’s no boss. Mutual aid. Voluntary cooperation. No centralized state. No boot, no neck. A vision beyond power games.

Chomsky cuts through the bullshit.

The living dissident. He’s not storming palaces, but he’s tearing down lies. He’s a scalpel for empire, for propaganda, for power dressed in liberal clothing. Chomsky shows you how to spot the cage even when it’s painted blue.

So can you be all four?

Only if you’re okay with contradiction. With mess. With not having all the answers but refusing to settle for anyone else’s either. You take Marx’s critique, Lenin’s urgency, Kropotkin’s ideals, and Chomsky’s clarity, and you use them all to fight the system while knowing none of them alone are enough.

It’s not a clean ideology. It’s a war room.

Capitalism is adaptive, violent, and relentless. Fighting it means pulling from every angle: materialist analysis, revolutionary strategy, anarchist ethics, and relentless truth-telling. That’s not confusion, that’s firepower.

So yeah, I’m a Marxist/Leninist/Kropotkinist/Chomskyist. Call it a contradiction. I call it a strategy.

What I take from Marx, Lenin, Kropotkin, and Chomsky

American politics are broken. Not just crooked or corrupt, but structurally, irredeemably broken. Corporate power is propped up, sociopaths are rewarded, and it dangles just enough hope to keep people from revolting. Voting feels like choosing flavors of decay, while the wealthy buy policy and workers beg for crumbs.

Instead of looking to the ballot box ever four or two years for salvation, I’m looking to four thinkers: Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, Peter Kropotkin, and Noam Chomsky. I’m not looking to them as prophets, but as strategists, builders, and demolition experts. Each of these people offer a different tool for ripping this thing apart and reimagining what politics could be. I’m not interested in dogma. I’m interested in results.

From Marx, I take the foundation that class struggle is everything. Marx didn’t give us a blueprint. He gave us a lens, a way to see power for what it is. Capitalism isn’t just unfair; it’s a system that demands exploitation to survive. You can’t vote away the class war. You have to understand that politics is economics in disguise, and that real change starts by confronting the structures that divide labor from power.

You want to change America? Then start by naming the enemy: capital.

From Lenin, I take the strategy that power doesn’t surrender, it gets taken.

Lenin knew that moments of chaos don’t organize themselves. He built a disciplined machine not to preserve power, but to capture and redirect it. I don’t want a vanguard party or a permanent state, but I do believe in planning, timing, and coordination. American politics love spectacle but fear movement. If we want to be more than angry individuals yelling online, we need to move with purpose. The system isn’t going to implode on its own. You either build power or beg from it.

From Kropotkin, I take the vision that mutual aid is not utopia but strategy.

This country is obsessed with bootstraps and billionaires. Kropotkin said fuck that. Cooperation is how we survive, and always has been. Fuck waiting for the state to save us. Let’s build networks, councils, co-ops, and clinics … parallel structures that meet people’s needs now, not after the revolution. Politics don’t just happen in voting booths. It happens in kitchens, strike lines, and occupied buildings. Real change starts when we stop asking permission and start taking care of each other.

From Chomsky I take the filter, meaning if an institution can’t justify its power then burn it down.

Chomsky taught me to look at power and say: “Prove you deserve to exist.” The state, the police, the military-industrial complex, corporate media … none of them pass that test. He also taught me to not waste time reinventing the wheel. If a structure is doing harm then dismantle it. If it’s helping people then democratize it. Reform what you must. Abolish what you can. Build what they fear.

American politics are a shell game designed to keep us chasing scraps while the ruling class counts profits. I’m done playing. If we want to change things then we have to stop trying to fix a broken system and start building a new one from the ground up.

The state won’t save us. The market won’t feed us. But we might if we finally get to work.

Reconciling Ozzy’s Legacy

Ozzy Osbourne was never meant to be a saint. He bit the head off a bat and dove, survived decades of drug abuse, tried to kill his wife (while under the influence of drugs), and still made his way into a global icon. Like many public figures though — especially from his generation — he carried contradictions. And lately, one of those contradictions has come under fire: his support for Zionism.

As someone who grew up worshipping Sabbath and Ozzy, I’ve been struggling to reconcile my love for his legacy with my politics. I’m anti-Zionist. I believe in the liberation of Palestine and the end of apartheid. And Ozzy’s apparent support for Israel during a time of intense suffering in Gaza felt like a gut punch.

But then came his farewell show: Back to the Beginning. A titanic goodbye organize by none other than Tom Morello: guitar god, anti-Zionist activist, and arguably one of the most politically consistent artists of our time. Morello curated the whole event, helped raise nearly $200 million for Parkinson’s and children’s hospitals, and sat side-by-side with Ozzy to send him off.

So what the hell do I do with that?

Do I cancel Ozzy? Do I cancel Morello for working with him? Do I cancel myself for loving them both?

No. I sit with the contradictions. Because real politics aren’t clean. They’re messy, emotional, and riddled with human inconsistency.

Ozzy supported Black Lives Matter. He stood up for the LGBTQ+. He raised a staggering amount of money for causes that matter. He was also, like many aging boomers, wildly out of his depth when it came to the geopolitics of Israel and Palestine. That doesn’t excuse it, but it does contextualize it, especially considering his declining health and the heavy medications he was on during his final years.

Morello’s participation doesn’t “excuse” Ozzy either, but it does suggest that celebrating someone’s musical legacy doesn’t always mean endorsing their politics. That nuance is lost in today’s discourse, which often demands total purity or total exile. But art, like people, is rarely so simple.

I can love “Mr. Crowley” and still rage against apartheid. I can blast “War Pigs” and say Ozzy got it wrong. And I can respect the farewell show while also wishing that one of the final statements of a metal god hadn’t included a blind spot so many in the West still carry.

Again, rest in power, Ozzy. And may the rest of us keep pushing — louder, harder, and more unapologetically — for a world where all people live free from occupation and oppression.

Free Palestine.

“How Are You Paying Today?”

I hate that everything in America is a transaction. Even pain. Even fear. Even health.

Walk into a doctor’s office. Maybe you’re anxious, maybe you’re hurting, and before anyone asks what’s wrong, the receptionist asks:

“How are you paying today?”

That question says everything about this country.

Not “What brings you in?”

Not “How can we help?”

Not “Are you okay?”

Just: How will you be affording your right to exist today?

We’ve turned care into commerce. Healing into a service. Suffering into an invoice.

Even if you have insurance, you’re still in the system; dodging surprise bills, guessing what’s “in-network,” gambling with deductibles. Coverage doesn’t mean care; it means you’ve bought a seat at the casino.

It’s dehumanizing. But that’s what America does. It reduces everything to a transaction. Your health, your education, your time, your grief. It’s all on the market. You’re not a person; you’re a customer. A credit score with a heartbeat.

And that’s the part that eats at me: you can do everything “right,” and still lose. You can work, contribute, obey, pay then get sick and be told, “Sorry, that’s not covered.”

This is a country that preaches freedom but puts a price tag on survival.

I’m tired of pretending it’s normal.

More people should be.

I’m Sick of Living in a Country With a Price Tag on Survival

There’s something deeply wrong with a society that puts a dollar sign on everything: air, water, healthcare, housing, even hope.

In America, you don’t get to live, you get to rent existence. And the rent keeps going up.

Need to drink water? Better hope your tap isn’t poisoned, privatized, or shut off because you’re behind on the bill. Need to see a doctor? Hope you can navigate the insurance labyrinth, dodge bankruptcy, and survive long enough to get an appointment three months from now.

This isn’t a functioning society. It’s a hostile marketplace cosplaying as civilization.

We slap “In God We Trust” on the currency, but worship profit above all. Billionaires hoard resources like dragons while kids ration insulin. Corporations dump chemicals into rivers while charging us for clean water. Politicians talk about “personal responsibility” while handing corporate welfare to their donors.

Everything is for sale … except dignity.

This system wasn’t built to help us. It was built to extract from us. Your labor, your time, your energy, your life. All monetized. The only thing “essential” in this economy is your ability to generate profit for someone else.

And when you stop being profitable? You’re disposable. That’s the cold logic of capitalism. It doesn’t care if you suffer. It needs you to.

But here’s the thing: people are waking up. The cracks are visible. The rage is growing. The question now isn’t “Is this sustainable?”, it’s “What the hell are we going to do about it?”

We can’t shop our way out of this. We can’t vote our way out of it alone. This is going to take organizing. Disruption. Solidarity. Mutual aid. Refusing to play their game by their rules.

Because survival should not be for sale.

And I, for one, am done pretending this is normal.

Covered, But Not Really: My Latest Battle with U.S. Healthcare

I have Medicare. That should mean something, right?

I told my psychiatrist I have Medicare. I’ve seen them before. We’ve talked. I’ve paid my copay. It’s all been fine … until now. Now I’m being told they “don’t take Wellcare.”

What is Wellcare? It’s a Medicare Advantage plan. And if you haven’t had the misfortune of dealing with one of these “advantage” plans, let me explain: they’re private insurance companies that slap a Medicare label on themselves so they can skim government money and give you less coverage in return.

So even though I’m on Medicare, I now owe the full amount for my last visit. And unless I want to cancel my next appointment — which I actually need — I’ll be paying the full amount for that one too. Because apparently “covered” doesn’t mean “covered.” It means “maybe, sometimes, depending on how many loopholes we can find.”

This is what healthcare in America looks like.

You can do everything right. You can make sure you’re insured. You can communicate. You can follow every rule. And still you get blindsided. You get billed. And you’re left scrambling to afford the care you already thought you paid for.

Meanwhile, insurance companies profit off confusion. They profit off denial. They profit off people like me being left in the dark until the invoice hits.

This isn’t just frustrating, it’s designed this way. They make it complicated on purpose. If you get screwed, it’s your fault for “not understanding the network.” If you ask for help, they hand you a phone number and a maze of menus. And if you give up? Great. They win. Less to pay out.

This is not a healthcare system. It’s a profit machine dressed up like one.

And right now, I’m just another cog getting crushed in it.

More Than an Album: What Ozzy Meant to Me

I know I listed my top ten albums, and with my last post being about Ozzy, you may be wondering “Why didn’t you list an Ozzy album?” I think Ozzy deserves another post of his own. My mom was never too strict with what I read. I could read virtually anything and she didn’t mind. She wasn’t really strict with what I listened to, either, but she was wary at times. She knew Ozzy’s reputation more than his music. Thankfully, she warmed up to him (and later to other musicians I listened to.)

One of my cousins gave me his copy of Ozzy’s No Rest for the Wicked. Like I said in my last post, I was a weird kid. I was obsessed with serial killers, Columbine, and the like. So when I heard “Bloodbath in Paradise” by Ozzy, there was an immediate connection. A song about Charles Manson and “the Family.” Someone was into the same stuff I was into? I found someone finally!

I had a friend make me a couple of mix tapes of Ozzy’s music and Marilyn Manson’s music: two artists who were no-no’s in my Southern Baptist home. They were both rebellion, bottled and distorted. They were both weirdos like me. I found people who understood me and accepted me for me.

Ozzy was the gateway. Not just into heavier music, but into embracing the strange and the dark instead of running from it. He didn’t glamorize evil, he mocked it, played with it, stared it in the eyes and laughed. For a kid growing up in a world full of fire-and-brimstone warnings, that was liberating. He was spooky but silly, demonic but theatrical, dangerous but oddly comforting.

And more than anything, Ozzy made it okay to be an outcast. He wasn’t some polished idol or untouchable god; he was a mess. He was raw and flawed and still somehow larger than life. That spoke to me more than anything.

I didn’t know it then, but those tapes, those lyrics, that chaos, it helped me survive. It helped me find a voice, even if I was just screaming it in my bedroom with headphones on. Ozzy was more than music. He was a lifeline.

So no, I didn’t list an Ozzy album in my top ten. He’s not just an album to me. He’s a whole era of my life.

And with his passing, it feels like the era’s closed. But the weird kid he helped carry through the dark? He’s still here. Still weird. Still grateful.